Caught between the three decisions, she did nothing at all, except feel pressured, tired, sweaty, and gritty.

Piteous, disgusting, her own mental voice supplied the words.

She inhaled slowly, and the intake of breath came with a hitch.

Unwanted.

The exhalation was interrupted by the thought.

Aunt Rachel loves me, she reminded herself. She wants me around.

She uses you. You have powers, you’re useful.

Candy loves me.

Candy doesn’t understand you. She pushes the memories and moments out of her head. She’s young enough that most of it is like a bad dream to her. Only a few moments really stuck, only a few rules and limits and buttons that someone could push, that make her start acting out.

You resent her for it. You resent that she only had a few years where she was old enough to know what was going on, only a few years where Father felt like she was worth paying attention to.

By the time he had her, he was bored enough with children that he didn’t pay her much mind. You broke that ground, he got bored because he paid that attention to you. You, Cherie, Jean-Paul, Valentina, Guillaume. Trying to break you, trying to make you trigger. Trying to make you soldiers. Or just the days he was an asshole who wanted to hurt someone and you were the first person he saw after the impulse crossed his mind.

You had five more years in those houses and hiding spots than she did. Five more years with Papa. That’s why she will heal, she’ll hang out with friends and laugh and there will be days or weeks even where she doesn’t think of him.

And you won’t. You resent Candy for that. So no, she doesn’t count.

Up to this point, she’d been able to manage. To push forward, do what she needed to do, and

“Cassie’s here! I’m coming down!”

Cassie.

Cassie, she thought. Cassie’s here.

Cassie counts.

No thoughts sprung up, no doubts, no contradictions.

She heard the scuffle.

“Be careful!” she called out. “It’s icy!”

There was a skid, sharp and swift, boots rolling over the sand instead of finding traction in it. Her head turned sharply, expecting to see the crash.

Rain stopped himself in mid-air, then let himself go again. His boots hit the floorboards, and the container of glass she’d collected and set down near that spot rattled with the nearby impact.

He bent down, grabbed the strap, and gave it a test lift.

“Oof, good collection.”

“Thank you,” she said. She gave him a smile.

“And you got a bunch of stuff over there. This is great.”

“Thank you,” she said, giving him a curtsy, picking up the sides of her jacket.